


Heavenly Bodies, or Napoleon is Oblivious

by callmeR, TheBiFromUNCLE



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, F/M, Fashion & Couture, Fluff, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-12
Updated: 2019-03-12
Packaged: 2019-11-16 05:41:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18088514
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmeR/pseuds/callmeR, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBiFromUNCLE/pseuds/TheBiFromUNCLE
Summary: Róisín (thebifromuncle) sent me a fashion AU drabble and I turned it into a fluffy fic. Photographer!Napoleon, model!Gaby, and designer!Illya.





	Heavenly Bodies, or Napoleon is Oblivious

"I just don’t see why I can’t use my usual models,” Napoleon complained to Waverly. “I know how to photograph people and I know who will look good in what and remind me why we’re bending over backwards for this Kuryakin guy?”

Waverly sighed, sounding like a gust of wind through the telephone.

“Because, Solo,” he began again, “we are trying to accommodate our Russian friends on this shoot because we’d like to develop a full partnership with them, and they specifically requested you because of your reputation. The one you have as a brilliant photographer, not the one you have as an arrogant playboy.” Napoleon rolled his eyes. “Illya Kuryakin has a specific model he likes to work with, and that’s fine with us, because we need this partnership, and it will be fine with you. Because I say so.”

“Fine. Well whoever she is, she can’t be worse than Victoria.” Napoleon almost shuddered at the thought of Victoria Vinciguerra - beautiful, incredible model, but the moodiest, most demanding woman he’d ever met. And he’d been in the fashion industry for ten years.

“Good man. See you later,” his editor hung up, not waiting for Solo to say goodbye.

***

Gaby turned out to be an absolute dream to photograph, thank goodness. She was polite, quick to take direction, and also quick to throw jabs at him as often as he threw them at everyone else. She was also impressively aware of her body, the clothes, what poses would suit her, and what Napoleon would need as he circled her, snapping photos. Napoleon showed her a few as they went, and found himself taking her advice on how to reframe a shot, or how to drape a sleeve.

And the collection! Incredible. Napoleon had worked as a photographer's assistant, then as a contract photographer, and now finally reigned as the staff photographer at Vogue. He'd seen collections by designers across the world - Versace, Gucci, Dior, you name it. It took a lot to impress him now, and these pieces were doing just that. The use of color and lines put him in mind of 1960s mod, but with modern silhouettes. Then there were sumptuous evening gowns, in vivid reds, blues, and greens, reminding him of Victorian portraits of Russian monarchs. All the pieces suited Gaby perfectly, and had obviously been tailored to her slight frame - she was short compared to the typical model, but Napoleon could see why Kuryakin insisted on her wearing his work.

The only flaw with Gaby was her companion - a stoic man who had a body like an Olympic athlete. When they walked in, the phrase _“built like a brick shit-house”_ came to Napoleon’s mind, which he quickly amended to _“built like a brick wall.”_ The man had hovered protectively around Gaby, standing outside her dressing room and occasionally coming in to help her with a zipper or tie. But Napoleon had people for that and they quickly shooed the man away. The man had only retreated at Gaby’s “ _Liebchen_ , let them do their job,” and was now hanging around Napoleon’s set, much to Solo’s annoyance. The man was in his way every five seconds - how could he not be, when he was the approximate size of a grizzly bear? Was the man her bodyguard? He looked like he could throw a motorcycle over his head without breaking a sweat.

Finally, Napoleon lost his patience and snapped,

“If you’re going to stay, make yourself useful. All you’re doing now is messing up my shots. My assistant is out sick so you hold the softbox,” Solo ordered, gesturing where the softbox lay to the side of the set. “Actually,” Solo continued, “you’re the size of a sequoia so we can move quicker with the close ups, since we won’t have to move the tripod over and over.”

The man made no move toward the softbox, staring at Solo in irritation. Gaby hid a smile as the man finally walked slowly over to the softbox and picked it up, his annoyed expression never leaving his face.

“Where do you want it?” the man finally said, his voice a deep rumble, thick with a Russian accent. _Oh for heaven’s sake,_ Solo thought. _Kuryakin must have sent him to look after his precious Gaby. Does he think Americans can’t be trusted around a pretty model? Or around me, specifically?_ Napoleon smirked a little at the thought.

“Go to her right,” Solo instructed, “and tilt in toward her.”

The man obliged, Gaby winking up at him as he took his position. The irritation disappeared from the giant’s face immediately, replaced by a small smile. _They’re comfortable with each other,_ he realized. _He must accompany her on all her shoots,_ Solo thought. Aloud, he said, “Perfect. Keep it there.”

With Gaby’s assistant (Handler? Bodyguard? Friend? Boyfriend?) helping instead of hindering, the rest of the shoot went as smooth as could be. After he held the softbox, Napoleon had him help spread a selection of truly beautiful skirts while Gaby reclined on the set’s lounge chair. The way he looked up at her made something in Napoleon’s stomach swoop.

Solo wondered if Gaby knew how the man felt. He certainly wouldn’t refuse the man’s advances, the way he looked. He had soft blond hair, and eyes that were a clear and cool blue. His jaw looked like it’d been chiseled by Michelangelo; Solo wondered if he had started in the industry as a model himself. Maybe he was another one of Kuryakin’s muses. And when Solo sent him off to the refreshments table for water for Gaby, so what if he got a bit distracted by his truly magnificent ass? Solo was only human, after all. As much as he had a reputation as a ladies man, Solo also appreciated his own gender quite a bit.

After fetching Gaby some water, the man took up a position by Solo, occasionally glancing down at his shots. Some he nodded at approvingly, others he snorted at judgmentally. Napoleon rolled his eyes - like he needed some model turned powerlifter turned personal assistant or whatever he was to tell him how to shoot. At last they were finished, and Gaby returned to her dressing room. The man stayed with Napoleon, unsure what to do with himself without his tiny companion.

“This collection’s really quite impressive,” Solo said to the man as he packed away his lenses. “The use of the colors and the embroidery you see in traditional Russian dress, in modern couture? Very bold.” The man said nothing in reply, watching Solo with a look in his eye Napoleon couldn’t quite place. “And Gaby is fantastic, I can see why Kuryakin insists on her wearing his pieces,” Napoleon continued. “Not a traditional model of course,” he said, as the man’s nostrils flared and lips tightened into a thin line.

“You are very rude man,” the man said in clipped tones. Napoleon felt like the Russian might take a swing at him, or challenge him to a duel.

“Nothing wrong with untraditional!” he assured the man, clapping him on the shoulder. _Ow,_ Napoleon thought. _You even feel like a damn brick wall._ “Just different. She’s great, really can see the shots like a photographer does. She knows her stuff.”

“She is best,” the man agreed, his posture relaxing slightly after Solo complimented Gaby. “I have seen her model a long time.”

“Do you know Kuryakin as well?” Solo asked, curious, as Gaby walked out of the changing room to the two of them. The man began to answer but Gaby cut him off.

“Thank you so much for the lovely shoot, Solo,” she said, standing up on her toes to kiss him on each cheek. “I’ll have to come back to New York soon. We’re never here often enough to suit me.”

“Please do,” Napoleon said warmly, giving her his best and (he thought) most charming smile. “I’d drop everything to shoot you any time.” Gaby smiled in response, lighting up her whole face. God, she’s beautiful, Solo thought.

Gaby turned to her obedient giant. “Ready to go, Illya?” she asked.

Illya.

_Illya._

As in Illya Kuryakin, the designer of this collection, who Waverly was desperate to court, who Napoleon had just ordered around a set all afternoon like a new intern.

 _Oh, FUCK,_ Napoleon thought, and desperately prayed for a black hole to open under his feet as he smiled weakly at Gaby and - fuck - Illya. No black hole appeared, so Napoleon had to say something.

“Aah, so, you’re Illya,” Napoleon said with an attempt at his usual bravado. It sounded extremely weak to his ears. Napoleon put out his hand. “We weren’t properly introduced.” Illya took his hand in a bone-crushing grip, meeting his eyes firmly.

“I was busy helping with shoot,” Illya said, straightfaced. Napoleon couldn’t tell if the man was making a joke or actually annoyed and really, really prayed he wouldn’t say anything to Waverly.

“Yes, er, thanks,” Solo said a bit sheepishly. “You make a decent assistant. Might get somewhere someday,” he added, apparently unable to stop being an ass for more than three seconds. Illya stared at him, blank-faced, then broke into a genuine chuckle. Gaby laughed too, and Napoleon relaxed a little.

“It was pleasure to observe your method,” said Illya, with a hint of a twinkle in his eye. “I look forward to seeing the photos.” Napoleon nodded his thanks, and with that Gaby and Illya turned and left the studio, Illya offering his arm and holding the door for her like an old world gentleman. Quite the pair, Solo thought, and turned back to his equipment.

***

Later that week, Napoleon sat at his computer flicking through Gaby’s shots, picking his favorites to send on to the various teams. Swiping through most of them quickly, he was stopped short by one photo that made his breath catch in his chest. He’d taken it during a transition where Illya had helped to spread Gaby’s skirt, a decadent red and gold piece. He was kneeling at her feet, almost in prayer, and the face he turned up to her was as reverent as if she were the Virgin Mary herself. Gaby was looking down at Illya with a gentle smile on her lips - not a full grin, but the warmth in it was plain to see. Napoleon couldn’t believe he’d thought maybe she didn’t know how Illya felt - it was plain to see she was as in love with him as he was with her. Solo was surprised to find he was sad to see it, as beautiful as it was. Her shining skin and the gold against it, his blond hair and the red illuminating it, this golden pair were made for each other in a way he’d never seen. How sad that he couldn’t be a part of something like it.

Solo shook the inconvenient feelings off and dragged the photo to an email. Illya’s email address quickly auto-filled as he typed and Napoleon tapped out, _Thought you might like this one - Solo._ He sent it before he had time to second guess the move.

Napoleon returned to flicking through photos, brow furrowed in thought. His email chimed a moment later, and the message popped up in the corner of his screen - _I do. Thank you very much. - Illya._ Napoleon’s heart jumped, then sank just as rapidly. Well, perhaps he’d see them again when the magazine’s Russian partnership developed.

***

Oh, the Met Gala. Napoleon loved a chance to dress up. And “Heavenly Bodies: Fashion and the Catholic Imagination” for the theme? It was a gift from God, to put it mildly. Napoleon smirked at his own joke as he adjusted his jacket, the Byzantine church scene, rendered in sequins, shifting as he buttoned his jacket. _Definitely a Look,_ Napoleon thought smugly as he turned from the mirror.

He enjoyed the photo call line, as he always did. Not that anyone would know him, since he was usually behind the camera, but it was fun to see everyone from the industry, along with a few celebrities, each year. Solo was laughing at Chadwick Boseman’s joke when he turned and saw her. _Oh my GOD,_ Napoleon thought, and this time didn’t even smirk at the relevance of the religious reference.

Gaby was walking toward him, resplendent in a strapless dress that was - my god was that the fresco from the Sistine Chapel? Napoleon could barely breathe, let alone think as he watched her float down the carpet. The gown trailed behind her like a wedding dress, complemented by an oversized bow that fell over her shoulders like a veil. She was simply radiant.

Napoleon was so enamored with Gaby that it took him a minute to realize Illya was right behind her, in a beautifully tailored mauve suit. He looked like Adam himself, the perfect man crafted in God’s image. _Jesus, Solo, get a grip,_ Napoleon chided himself at the hyperbolic thought. Illya turned to speak to someone and Solo saw that beautiful gold embroidery spanned across the back of his jacket. He felt his knees go weak, and he couldn’t say if it was Illya and Gaby’s presence or their clothes, though he suspected he really did know which.

“Solo!” Gaby cried with delight, spotting him a few yards away. She quickly closed the distance between them and embraced him, kissing him on both cheeks like no time had passed since their time in his studio. “You look fantastic. Dolce and Gabbana?”

“Yes,” Solo replied, grinning at her. “You are truly a heavenly sight, Gaby,” he continued, taking in every inch of her gown now that she was up close. The cloth fell in beautiful layers around her, and Solo was mesmerized by the dress, by her, by this intoxicating vision.

“I sewed layers myself. Up to your standards?” a voice rumbled above him, and Napoleon looked up to find Illya smiling at him. They shook hands and Solo found himself genuinely pleased to see the gigantic Russian again.

“It’s an incredible piece, Illya,” Napoleon said, uncharacteristically free of sarcasm. “Your suit is fantastic as well.” Illya smiled and nodded his thanks.

“I was teasing him because he’s wearing Gucci,” Gaby said. “How could you not wear your own work to the Met Gala?”

“I could never make my pieces look as good as you do, _solnyshko_ ” Illya said graciously, bowing, taking Gaby’s hand and kissing it. With anyone else it would’ve been corny, but Solo found himself extremely charmed by Illya’s line. Illya looked up at him and Gaby from his bow and Napoleon felt his stomach flip. What was it about these two?

“What table are you at?” Gaby asked him. Napoleon dug out his invitation. “Seven,” he answered.

“So are we!” Gaby exclaimed, delighted. “Perfect, now we can plan our next shoot together. Illya has been working on some fantastic pieces.”

Solo grinned, her excitement infectious. “Whenever and wherever you like,” he said in an outlandish Russian accent, bowing and kissing her hand in his best Illya imitation. Gaby and Illya both laughed, their eyes shining.

***

Napoleon was delighted to find that the laughter continued at dinner. He thought perhaps Illya was too dry and occasional a comic to be fun at a party, but he turned out to be a fantastic verbal sparring partner. Gaby ate up their banter, interjecting to drag them both thoroughly every few minutes. Solo hadn’t laughed this hard in years, and between the laughter and the champagne he felt downright giddy. Being with Illya and Gaby was like being allowed into a secret club, where only beautiful shining people were welcomed, and Napoleon felt like at least for tonight, he had been invited in. He intended to enjoy every minute of it.

During dessert Gaby kicked off her heels and insisted on putting her feet in Solo’s lap - not that he had objected overmuch. Their conversation had continued unabated, and Solo unwound his bowtie, feeling warm from the conversation, the wine, and the heat of the room. He unbuttoned his first few shirt buttons and leaned back in his chair, content, full of food and laughter. Illya and Gaby had moved closer together as the night went on, like magnets inevitably pulling back together after being separated. One of Illya’s large hands rested on Gaby’s shoulder, and she reached back to brush her fingers lazily across it. Napoleon found himself fixated by the motion, imagining how soft her fingers must be, and how they would feel against the sensitive skin of Illya’s hand.

He stared longer than he planned, and looked up to find Gaby and Illya both looking at him with expressions he couldn’t quite understand. There was something dangerous in Gaby’s eyes, an allure that Solo felt he wouldn’t be able to resist if he took the slightest step toward it. Illya’s eyes, in contrast, were open and soft in a way Napoleon hadn’t seen before. It made him want to stroke along the Russian’s jaw, and dig his nails into his chin, just a bit, just enough to make Illya gasp.

Gaby smiled at him, slow, like she’d just learned a secret. She extended her hand to Solo to kiss, and he obliged, leaning toward them both and keeping his eyes fixed on hers. The unmistakable shutter of a camera went off near them. _Well there’s one for the blogs,_ Napoleon thought as he pressed a kiss to Gaby’s hand and looked from her to meet Illya’s gaze.

***

“I’m _hungry_ ,” Gaby declared as they wandered down the street. Well to be more accurate, Gaby had insisted on a piggy back ride from Illya, so he and Napoleon were wandering as Gaby rode on the huge man’s back, heels in one hand and clutch in the other. They were all still in their couture, having gone right from the party to wandering around New York at two in the morning.

“There’s a great taco shop a few blocks down,” Napoleon offered, pointing east. “24/7, thank goodness, and the sweetest old man runs it. Shall we?” Gaby grinned.

“Onward!” she shouted to Illya, and kicked him like a filly. Illya laughed and obligingly galloped down the block. Solo smiled as he followed the pair into the crosswalk.

Napoleon found himself wishing he had a camera with him, watching Gaby in The Last Judgment chowing down on a burrito about the size of her head. It would’ve been wonderful to capture the way Illya looked at her, eyes warm as a winter fire as he licked hot sauce off of his long fingers. Solo couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled this much - his face almost hurt from it. The warmth from the gala had stayed with him - he felt a sense of comfort with these two he hadn’t felt in years. It was strange to feel it again, but it somehow felt right too.

“My studio is right around corner,” Illya was saying as Napoleon tuned back into the conversation. “Should we have coffee?”

“Why not?” Solo answered. He followed the two of them out the door, smiling (god, what was with him?) as Gaby continued to complain to Illya about the lack of men making an effort to meet Met gala themes. “If you’re going to come to a fashion event, for heaven’s sake, make an _effort_ \--” he heard as he turned to wave goodbye to the shop’s staff.

***

Illya’s studio turned out to be a comfortable, homey space, full of half-finished dresses on mannequins, cigarette butts in makeshift ashtrays (a teacup saucer, a pocket mirror, an actual ashtray that looked about 80 years old), and the most comfortable couch in existence. Gaby and Napoleon sank into it as Illya dug out coffee, filled the machine with water, and unearthed three well worn mugs. The smell of the coffee reminded Napoleon of his days at art school, and he found himself closing his eyes and leaning back onto the worn leather couch, completely at peace. He stretched an arm over the back of the couch and Gaby was quickly under it, warm against his side. She sighed quietly and snuggled against him, like a cat finally finding just the right place to sleep.

She pulled away slightly and Solo thought the coffee must be ready, and she was getting up to help Illya. But then he felt the softest kiss on his cheek. It was sweet, and Solo smiled softly in response. Then she kissed his cheek again, longer, lingering, and Napoleon’s breath hitched. And then she was kissing against his jaw, and then his neck, and suddenly she was pulling the collar of his shirt aside to nip at his collar bone. Solo opened his eyes, unsure if he’d fallen asleep and this was a very vivid dream. He felt Illya sit down behind him and immediately began to turn, ready to apologize or explain. But before he could say a thing, Illya’s fingers were under his chin, gentle but firm, pulling his mouth toward his own. Illya paused when they were close, close enough to feel each other’s breath, as Gaby continued to press kisses to Solo’s chest.

“This is okay, Solo?” asked Illya, and Gaby stopped kissing to look up at them.

“Call me Napoleon,” he replied, embarrassed by the need in his voice. “Please.”

Illya’s smile unfolded slowly, and he rumbled “Napoleon,” as he closed the small distance between their lips. Napoleon could hear Gaby hum appreciatively as she watched them kiss, but it was a distant sound compared to the quick breaths he could hear coming from Illya. Solo felt like he might drown in the sound, the smell, the taste of him. Their kiss was chaste but promised so much, like a fire had been lit under their skin that threatened to burst into an inferno. Illya pulled away and looked at Solo fondly as Gaby rested her head against his shoulder and stroked circles on his chest, more comfort than seduction. Napoleon brought his hand to her hair, gently resting his fingers on it, and leaned his head back against Illya’s shoulder. Illya’s hand moved to his jaw, stroking back and forth pleasantly against the beginning of five o’clock shadow. Napoleon closed his eyes again and blissfully, gently, drifted off to sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> For reference, Napoleon wore what Darren Criss wore, Illya wore what Donald Glover wore, and Gaby wore Ariana Grande's fabulous dress.


End file.
